Nothing Gold Can Stay
by jacksmedullaoblongata
Summary: AU: It's the 1920's, and Emma is a struggling waitress at a sleazy speakeasy in New York. There she meets the rich but arrogant Killian Jones, who soon sweeps her up into the socialite world of the rich and famous - parties, drinking, etc. But she soon discovers that his world is not the glitz and glam she thought. Will be updated regularly.


Chapter 1

"Just a few more hours" Emma thought as she deftly maneuvered through tables and people. Slater's was in full swing tonight—Bobby, the manager had somehow found a way to hire the popular, smooth-singing Carolina Jones, and as a result the speakeasy had been filled since nine o'clock at night.

Slinking past a very tipsy couple convinced they were in fact in Central Park, Emma caught sight of herself in a nearby mirror. She cringed at the sight. A tight, lacy black dress barely covering her assets clung to her body like static as black stiletto heels dug into her ankles. The whole outfit seemed to suggest to her that perhaps her role as a waitress wasn't her only job.

"_Henry. Think of Henry."_ She chanted in her head. Emma had been slaving at Slater's for little over a year now in an attempt to put her seven year old son, Henry, through school. Thinking of her boy helped sometimes, but most of the time the greasy floors, suggestive looks, and constant smell of martinis in her hair almost drove her to quit.

But she couldn't. A mere waitress at a sketchy, alcohol-ridden restaurant wasn't her ideal job, but it paid for a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs. Her son wasn't lucky to be born in this hedonistic, booze-filled world of the '20's, but by hell she would do whatever she could to make sure he had the best opportunities in it.

"Swan! Back to work!" A voice yelled in her direction. Emma quickly spun around and headed to the table nearest to the stage, hastily setting down three cocktails.

"It's about bloody time." The man in the middle said.

"_So_ sorry sir, Slater's sends you their deepest—"

But Emma had looked up from the table. The man's eyes were piercing – a striking blue. They were staring at her, imploring, and Emma took a deep breath. His words seemed to betray his intentions though, as his lips were curved up in a half grin. He said nothing, and with a start, Emma realized he was waiting for her to finish her sentence.

"Their deepest apologies. Slater's sends their deepest apologies." She stumbled over the words.

"Yes, well, lets _try_ not to do it again, shall we darling?" He didn't seem irritated – in fact he was smiling at Emma again, rubbing his hand through the peppered stubble on his face. He leaned closer, so close she could smell the cocktail on his breath:

"Or if you do, you'd best find a way to make it up to me."

Emma exhaled. This man was just like all the other rich trash that came through this restaurant. Always expecting something out of her, the lowly waitress, thinking she'd be impressed by their fancy coats and expensive hats. This blue-eyed man was nothing different.

"So sorry, _sir_." She sneered, making sure to emphasize the "sir." With that, she retreated, but she couldn't help but overhear the two women sitting beside him.

"Oh Killy, you're such a flirt."

"Killy, you promised to take us to Dan's party."

"Yes, you promised, now you have to buy us more drinks."

Emma watched the table out of the corner of her eye for the rest of her shift. This "Killy" seemed like a player—a rich one at that. His coat was a thick, velvety cashmere, and on his right hand was a gold watch. Not a fat one that the mobsters who came through Slater's wore, his was simple, no thicker than the width of his thumb, and as she watched throughout the evening, he played with it nervously.

She wasn't watching him for his excessive good looks – Emma had been seduced by a handsome man long ago and had since learned her lesson when meeting handsome faces. This man oozed confidence – he had a beautiful girl on either arm, obviously a large sum of money, and all the possibilities in the world. His was the usual formula that came through these doors – wealthy, cocky, and always getting their way. Yet there was something about him that made her look twice, something there underneath his loud flirtation and cashmere coat that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

As it neared one in the morning, the man and his posse got up to leave. They passed Emma on their way to the door, and though the two girls seemed drunk as could be he, on the other hand, was not. He turned, making eye contact with her before flashing a shark-like grin, suggestion written all over his face.

"Killian. The name's Killian, if you were wondering. Which you have been, darling, judging by your staring all night."

Emma blushed, taken aback. She hadn't realized he'd noticed. Unfortunately, he'd taken her staring as flirtation.

"Maybe I'll see you around." He asked, confident.

"I doubt it." With that, Emma walked away. This "Killian" was obviously a player – nothing else. The "something else" she had been trying to put her finger on didn't exist – she knew that now. He was a rich, arrogant jerk who had the audacity to flirt with the skimpily dressed waitress while his arms were flung around two other girls.

Later on, as Emma was cleaning up the table, she came across a picture on the floor. It was old and worn, creased in the right hand corner and taped together in the middle. A beautiful woman, happiness crinkling through her eyes, smiled up at the camera as long brown tresses of hair rested on her shoulders. Emma turned the picture over, surprised to find an inscription carefully handwritten on the back.

_To my dearest Killian_

_So long as I can look upon your smiling face_

_And feel the sea breeze through my hair_

_I will always love you, forever_

_- Milah_

Her face, that smiling face. Emma had seen it before, in the newspaper. What had it been for? With a sinking feeling deep in her stomach, she recalled the front page of the New York Times, just over two years ago. A woman, this posh socialite, had been murdered in cold blood at her own party, her own house in Manhattan. Emma remembered it because of the odd circumstances – the killer, who had not yet been caught, had killed the woman in front of her own guests. For some unknown reason, he had left the other partygoers alone, making a gruesome yet interesting storyline in the papers.

This woman in the picture, the one that promised to love Killian, this Milah – she was the one in the newspaper, the one that had been brutally murdered. Emma was sure of it.


End file.
